Unexpected Complications
by E Phoenix
Summary: Answer to one of PGF's challenges. Holmes manages to get himself into a bad situation that further annoys him because nothing is going as planned or acting as expected, including his new flatmate. Watson and Lestrade deal with the aftermath. Update 4 KCS!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Here is my answer to one of PGF's challenges: "write a fic where Holmes or Watson are faced for the first time in their acquaintence with the other in some sort of danger or trouble." It's a one-shot, I think. ((tries to remember definition of one shot LOL)) Unless, of course, you guys want me to finish it. I'll take any and all suggestions as to whether or not to do so.

I decided to have Holmes hurt in this one. After all, really, I can't torture Watson ALL the time... lol. Hope you like it! ;)

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**Unexpected Complications**

There is a horrible pounding in my ears, my body aches all over, and my temple is throbbing. Obviously, recent events have not gone as I expected.

"Holmes? Holmes? Can you hear me?" Watson whispers, his voice anxious.

"What went wrong?" I ask, trying to sit up and being summarily shoved back down.

"What _didn't_?" he replies dryly. "No," he puts one hand on my shoulder and the other pressing a handkerchief to the injury on my forehead when I again attempt to sit. "Stay still."

"_Watson_," I protest. The pressure on my shoulder increases.

"I said stay still!" I am surprised by his vehemence—have I finally pushed my fellow lodger past his limits?—but I see the worry in his face, his eyes, and I am relieved.

Having grown accustomed to Watson for nearly a year, now, I would be loathe to lose him as an associate.

"I _told _you not to come here alone!" He is still whispering, though he manages to get his feelings across quite well.

I blink—we are still there then? By the string of condemned warehouses? I glance about and take in the broken windows and the hulking, rusting machines in the murky lighting. Yes, we are certainly at the warehouses, though we seem to have moved inside one during a point I do not recall. My plans must have _really_ gone awry—what did I overlook? Wait, what is Watson doing here in the first place? I was to meet the informant alone.

"Why didn't _you_ listen to _me_?" I retort, keeping my voice lowered but no less fervent, as he has done. The headache that is setting upon me has done nothing to ease my mood. "You shouldn't have followed me. Is that what happened? Did they follow you here?"

His look of worry is replaced by indignation. "I beg your pardon, Holmes, but if I had not followed you, you would certainly be in a great deal of trouble right now." He doesn't let me interrupt him, but proceeds to answer my unvoiced question. "You were attacked. I-I barely made it in time to help _you_ and I was too late for your colleague... I quickly dispatched six of them with my revolver and, in the confusion; I grabbed you and managed to hide in here. It's a deuced good thing there's more than one warehouse! So far, obviously, they haven't found us."

My injury is evident as it takes me a moment for his words to sink in. "My informant is dead?"

He squeezes my shoulder. "I am terribly sorry, I know how important the evidence he had was to your case. If only I had been a few moments earlier—"

His melancholic tone makes me shake my head—gingerly, as it still hurts—and say, "It isn't your fault, dear fellow."

"I wish I'd been able to get us out of here, but I wasn't able to go very far. Hopefully, we didn't leave a trail of blood."

It takes me a moment before I realize that it couldn't be my blood he means—he has the handkerchief to my forehead and anyway, most of my injuries are bruises and are not bleeding. "Are _you_ injured, Doctor?"

"A shot grazed my leg. My good leg." He gives a wry smile. "What _was_ my good leg at any rate—I now have a matching set of bad ones…which is why I could not get us all the way to safety."

"Let me see." I push his hand off my shoulder and sit, letting him help me when the dizziness arrives.

I peer at his leg in the moonlight and see he has tied his jacket thoroughly around his wound. It appears to be, as he said, a graze, but I have no doubt that it would hamper his movement, especially as his war wounded leg would have had to compensate. "It isn't serious?"

He smiles softly in the light. "No, a mere scratch."

I start to crouch so that I can explore our hideout, calculate our next move, but he pulls me back down.

"I say, Holmes, I mean it when I tell you to stay still. You've a nasty head wound."

"We cannot just sit here and wait for them to find us," I reply, gritting my teeth and starting to move away from him. A wave of nausea washes over me and I feel Watson gently easing me down, my back against one of the machines. I cannot help but feel grateful, if annoyed, that my fellow lodger obviously has proven that he will always be there to offer his help, whether or not I wish for it. He is another complication in my life that I have been unable to plan for.

"Inspector Lestrade should be here, soon, and I've no doubt he'll bring reinforcements."

"What?" I hiss. "You called in the dashed _Yard_?" Being rescued by a bunch of Yarders is not acceptable.

"I sent Lestrade a note before I came after you."

"I suppose you _knew_ that my correspondence with the informant had been intercepted and you expected that we would be attacked?" I knew my tone was touchy, but really, how had he known what I had not?

"Certainly." I am speechless for a second at his easy reply, and he smiles. "One of the Irregulars came by soon after you left and I wheedled the information he had for you out of him in exchange for one of Mrs. Hudson's scones. The boy had been following the lieutenant of the gang as you ordered and had heard about plans for a large attack on a couple of 'snitches' tonight. You had told me that you were meeting your informant about the gang and so it did not take much effort to deduce that you were walking into a trap."

For a moment I just stared at him. "And so you grabbed your revolver, sent a note, and charged into the fray by yourself?"

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "There was little else I could do, with a friend in danger."

A friend. Yes, I suppose that is what he is; a friend. Perhaps some things that are unexpected are not so terribly awful after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I still own no-one but the various OC's. And my cats--no, never mind, I don't really own them either. (sigh)

Well, some of you seemed interested and PGF's challenge's premise was a fun one, so I decided to write more! Please (if you so desire) let me know what you think. R+R appreciated. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_Unexpected Complications_

**Watson**

I must say I obtained not a _little_ satisfaction from Holmes' look of astonishment when I was, for once, able to say, "Certainly" in answer to one of his questions. In fact, I obtained quite a _lot_ of it.

Characteristically, Holmes ignores my calling him a friend and harrumphs. "I do hate to have to wait around for the Yard. I hope your note was short and to the point?"

I stifle a sigh—he really must think me rather dull. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort not to reply, 'No, Holmes, I inquired about the state of his health and entirely forgot to mention the fact we were in danger.' Instead I suppress the urge and say, "Yes, of course."

He nods and then immediately winces at the movement, causing me to furrow my brows. He really should be lying down. "We could still move to the door, ready ourselves—"

I may lack the nerve to enforce my opinions on my new friend about some things, but medical advice is not generally one of them! "No, Holmes, you're not to move around with a head injury, surely you know that."

Holmes frowns at me and I bite the inside of my cheek—he looks exactly the image of a sulking child!

"As I said, the Inspector should be here shortly—"

"We'll see how much good that will do," Holmes mutters.

"—and at any rate, I haven't any ammunition and I do not think either of us would fare well in close combat at the moment."

Sighing, Holmes leans back against the machinery and closes his eyes—a testament to the state of his concussion, certainly. As much as the man remains a partial mystery to me, I know very well that he does not generally give up so easily. At least his eyes do not appear to be dilated, though I wish I had a light to be sure his pupils are responding properly. Not that I could use it without giving away our situation.

"You really did get the information out of Wiggins and figure out the remainder on your own?"

For a moment, I am not sure whether to be flattered or insulted—his tone is still slightly surprised and, in anyone other than him I would say almost admiring, even. It is obvious that he did not think me capable of making a quick decision and acting upon it—but I daresay that quick decisions are one of the easiest kinds for me to make!

Instead of asking why he is so amazed at the fact that I apparently do have some sort of working brain, I humor him. "Yes. I really did."

"Excellent, Watson." His eyes open again and for a moment those cold, clear cut orbs seem to be illuminated by something akin to respect. "I must say that while I am still not entirely _pleased_ that you did not follow my instructions—" He holds up a hand when I open my mouth to reply. "—I am gratified that you acted upon your keen instincts for action and managed to blunder in at precisely the right time. My thanks."

As usual, his words leave me momentarily speechless and slightly perplexed. Should I feel gratified by his speech—probably the warmest thanks I shall ever get from him—or be indignant that he called my intervention a "blunder?" In true characteristic habit—we _have_ fallen into routine with each other, even now—I let his implied slight drop and find myself smiling. From Holmes, that was practically a _glowing_ thank you, after all. "You're certainly welcome."

The sudden attack catches both of us by surprise. One moment we are whispering calmly to each other—him leaning back, me across the small aisle from him surveying him closely—and then all of a sudden a large wrench slams into part of the machinery next to Holmes' head. It is by far the largest and thickest Stillson wrench I've ever seen.

Luckily, Holmes' reaction time has not been entirely dulled by his injury—he deftly rolls out of the way of the blow and quickly springs to his feet. The quick movement does nothing to help his upset equilibrium, however, and I lurch upright in order to defend Holmes as he staggers, catching himself on the machine.

As I have moved in between Holmes and our attacker—there seems to be only one—the large man grins, his blackened teeth apparent even in the moonlight, and lunges toward me. I dodge his heavy swing with the wrench and lop a makeshift haymaker into his side. He grunts and swings again, and I sidestep it, but my recently injured leg gives out and I am quite sure I cannot avoid the next blow when Holmes has shoved me out of the way. He hurls a chain—a chain? Where the devil did he get a chain?—at the man and it does not hit him, but it does wrap around the end of the Stillson wrench, and Holmes yanks it hard to the side, forcing the man to miss me.

I have just regained my footing when the behemoth—he is taller than Holmes and broader than both of us put together—jerks the wrench back as hard as he can, pulling Holmes toward him. Instantly the man grabs my friend and dashes him to the ground.

"_Holmes_?" Horrified, I leap in front of my fallen comrade; he lays crumpled where he landed and he is not moving. Our attacker uses the short reprieve to unwrap the chain from his makeshift club and toss it on the floor behind him. He grins again in the moonlight and I ready myself for what is most likely going to be a tremendously difficult fight. I only wish I were in better physical condition.

The sound of nearby gunfire outside the warehouse gives the man a moment of pause and his eyes briefly glance at the window. I hurriedly seize my chance. True, this wasn't how a gentleman should go about sparring, but he certainly is in a higher weight class than I am and he is wielding a weapon to boot, and more importantly, all rules and thoughts go out the window automatically when I am in a situation of life and death. Not to mention that I have Holmes to look after.

I tackle the man in a proficient rugby move and manage to knock the wrench away when we hit the floor. I can a volley of shots from outside and men's voices shouting as well as the sounding of police whistles—obviously Lestrade has arrived. This is a blessing in many ways, for it is unlikely any other villains will find us while fighting off the police, but at the same time, no one will be able to hear us doing battle in this particular warehouse with all the gunfire. I am going to have to fight this particular battle on my own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **You know, this is quite funny. I originally intended this to be a response to both KCS's 221b challenge AND PGF's first time trouble challenge. that just goes to show how things don't always go as planned--this has evolved into quite a few more words than 221.

Here's the next chapter! No, I don't H+W or Lestrade. Sadly.

Thanks for reading and reviewing guys! Let me know how you like this--I am always uneasy over my fight scenes.

* * *

_Unexpected Complications_

**Watson**

This man is an absolute leviathan. Even before, when I was in full health, my own girth was nothing next to his and my strength is surely pale in comparison. Thus, after I tackle him and knock the wrench out of his grasp, he recovers quickly and kicks me off of him with an ease that slightly injures my pride.

I land next to Holmes, who still hasn't stirred, and I instinctively roll to the side, just as our attacker's meaty fist smashes into the floor where my head had been. Seeing Holmes' drawn, pale face—he really needs to have that laceration stitched and I am quite sure he has a concussion—only makes me more determined to win this match. Sheer power is not everything. _Although_, I think ruefully,_ it certainly helps_.

The man lets out a curse and springs backwards as I shove myself upright, wishing fervently I had not injured my good leg as my stance is that much less stable for it.

I do not make a habit of starting brawls, but if I am forcibly engaged in one by all means I usually go in aggressively. This time, however, I will have to uncharacteristically be closer to the defensive.

In an instant, the man's on top of me, throwing a heavy punch. I duck and swing a blow of my own into the man's torso. All of a sudden, he slashes at me with a knife that has materialized in his hand and I mutter an oath, twisting away and trying to decide if I should pull the empty revolver out of my pocket and use it as a club.

No time. The behemoth undercuts my jaw and I taste blood in my mouth but I shake it off, determined not be taken out so easily. He slashes at me again with the blade and I spin out of the way and hurriedly slam my elbow into the villain's back as he passes me.

He staggers forward a few steps before turning, his face enraged. Perhaps the most bothersome fact is that, although we have traded several blows, he still appears to not yet feel winded. _What does it take to hurt him?_

Again he lunges at me and I let him, hoping he shall wear himself out always being the aggressor, and though I avoid his first strike, he lashes out and hits me in my injured leg.

The world is a blinding white as intense pain engulfs me and my weakened limb gives out instantly. I fall to my knees in a haze of pain, but before he lacerates my throat and ends it all, I manage to lurch upward on my less-injured leg and tackle the man around his waist, dragging him to the ground and momentarily stunning him.

Even dazed, he prepares to raise his arm and stab me but I am prepared for this and instantly bring my elbow down on his wrist as hard as I can. It gives a sickening _pop!_ and the man releases the knife, growling and kneeing me in the stomach.

I roll off of him, pulling the empty gun out of my jacket pocket, and before the man can cause any more mischief I bring the weapon to bear and crash the butt of the revolver into the fiend's face, once, then twice, until his grip slackens and I am able to scramble free.

He doesn't move, but I can see the rise and fall of his chest.

For a moment I sit here, merely attempting to catch my breath, then I grab the knife and the wrench and skid them away as far as I can across the floor. That taken care of, I crawl over to Holmes. I am not certain I can stand; my legs are aching with the exertion and for some reason my side feels like it has been kicked by an extremely irate horse.

"Holmes?" I ask. The gunshots have died down outside and by the shouted commands I can tell that the Inspector and his men have won the fight.

I pull my spare handkerchief out of my pocket—the one I used prior is ruined—and very gently wipe the blood from my fellow lodger's cut. He has considerable bruising, but the laceration itself is small and will need only one or two stitches. He moans a little as I examine him and I let out a sigh of relief. He probably lost consciousness again because of the rough treatment and his concussion, and _not_ due to any further injury. "It's alright, Holmes," I whisper.

Exhausted and unable to do anything further for my patient without my medical bag—I should have brought it—I sit next to him and only now take stock of my own injuries. The legs need rest, both of them, but why the devil is my side hurting?

I pull my jacket out of the way and glance down. The side of my shirt has a crimson stain on it. Blood.

I blink in surprise and pull up my shirt—sure enough, the man managed to give me a decent slice along my side. Automatically I press my left hand to the wound, leaving the handkerchief on Holmes' head injury.

Holmes moans. I once more bend over him, checking to see if he's coming round. If he is, I may very well have to forcibly hold him down.

He opens his eyes briefly and looks at me as if puzzled. "Doctor?" His voice has a slight slur to it, but not a severe one. Good. Most likely his concussion is only mild to moderate—he has not yet vomited or convulsed.

"Yes, I'm here, Holmes." I squeeze his shoulder once and quickly pull my hand away—no doubt the detective would resent my attention. At his suddenly concerned look I shake my head. "We're alright. The Yard's arrived—"

"Oh, good," he mumbles, and even concussed he pulls off the sarcasm quite well.

"And the man who found us is no longer a threat." I glance over at the man to be sure of my words—sure enough, he is still unconscious. Possibly I should have only clubbed him _once_ with the gun…

Holmes nods and winces.

"Don't move until it's absolutely necessary," I say softly, laying a hand on the top of his head. He sighs and closes his eyes.

I move closer to Holmes, keeping one hand on his head to make certain he doesn't move it, one hand pressed to my side, and both eyes on our attacker, waiting for Inspector Lestrade to arrive.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Still don't own anyone other than the people who don't exist in the canon.

Thanks for your opinions about the action! I really wanted to give Watson a good fight scene and have him come across as brave and strong, even though he is injured and still not entirely better from Maiwand. I'm glad you seemed to like it. :)

Anyway, this next chapter is my first attempt to write Lestrade, so do let me know how you think I did. I'm not 100 percent happy, but I think I got him relatively partially mostly right--although that is not really grammatical English. . lol.

Here we go. Thanks for R&Ring!

* * *

_Unexpected Complications_

**Lestrade**

When I first received the note, I was deucedly surprised. Not only was it from Dr. John Watson, who had never sent me such a thing before, the contents were enough to stagger anyone. Apparently Dr. Watson had learned that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in danger—going into what promised to be a trap without calling the Yard as usual—and had set out after him.

The part that had me reeling was not merely that the doctor had started after him alone—the man was hardly in any health to tramp around shooting people, though he'd done well enough in the Jefferson Hope case—it was where they were headed. Surely not _really_ the abandoned warehouses near _Bluegate Fields_!

It is not an exaggeration to say that the entire district of Bluegate Fields is a hovel of iniquity. Consequently, I rounded up a squad of men and three paddy wagons, as the public call them, before I was on my way. I am not a coward, but it is, I believe, a good idea to be as prepared as one can be.

As soon as we reached the string of warehouses—no doubt connected to the gang of thieves Mr. Holmes has been helping me round up—we came across a group of men who were lying about groaning, clutching various limbs. No doubt evidence of Mr. Holmes and the Doctor's presence. Regardless, these men were the first our party came across and they were easily taken into custody.

Thus the volley of gunfire that burst upon us came as a slight surprise—they could easily have hit their confederates. Not that I really expected loyalty among villains…

At any rate, it was a good thing that all of us had come armed and wary into a part of the city such as this and that we already had our guns out to deal with the injured prisoners.

At the first shot, I immediately dove for cover behind a rotten bunch of old shipping crates and I was relieved to see I did not have to yell out an order to tell the men to find cover and return fire.

I leveled my pistol and fired several shots, wincing as a bullet whizzed past my ear, close enough so I could hear the whistling it made flying through the air. I returned fire and grinned with satisfaction as the man who was firing upon me dropped the gun and clutched his wounded hand. I have many faults, but being an inaccurate shot is not one of them.

We had a good fight of it, but with five or six of their party injured and some of them divided up between warehouses, the fight did not last more than ten minutes. I clapped derbies on the man that seemed to be the leader and told the others to round the rest of them, clap them in irons, and put 'em in the back of the wagons. A good thing I brought the wagons, too!

After it was over, I divided the men into groups to search the warehouses. I could only hope I was not too late to help Mr. Holmes—the man is insufferable and pompous, but he is often a help to me and to the Yard; a bigger help than I should like to admit—and Dr. Watson, who seems to be an upstanding, decent sort of chap and possibly a Saint, considering he has lived with Mr. Holmes for nigh on a year and hasn't committed murder, yet.

I round up two men to come with me and we enter one of the larger warehouses. I am feeling rather uplifted—everything has gone so easily, without a hitch—and only one of my men's been wounded with a shot in the arm. An ambulance wagon should be arriving soon.

I gesture to the men to split up and I creep through the darkened place, all of my senses on alert. I may not be as clever as Mr. Gregson, but I daresay I am more a man of action than he is!

I have my weapon firm in hand and I hear a low groan coming from in between two of the hulking mechanisms. Moving as silently as I am able, I creep up to the back of one and edge along it until I jump out into the aisle between the machines, gun raised and ready.

"Hold still or I shall shoot!" I yell, and then freeze.

About three feet in front of me is a gigantic, unconscious man and beyond him is Mr. Holmes, lying still and pale on the floor, and Dr. Watson, leaning up against a machine with his eyes closed, his leg bleeding, and his hand on his bloody side. At my yell, he opens his eyes and smiles slightly.

"Good to see you, Inspector," he says, a trifle out of breath. "I must thank you for responding to my note so promptly." I just stare at him, lowering my gun, and so he continues. "Holmes is hurt. He could use some help."

"Er, you seem to be injured yourself," I reply, returning my weapon to my side pocket, warily moving past the gargantuan, and hurrying to Mr. Holmes and the doctor. "Cooper, Moore," I shout for the constables that accompanied me. "Get the man from the ambulance in here, we've got casualties!"

I hear the pounding of their feet as they run outside and I concentrate again on the men before me.

"He," the good Doctor, who I had judged wouldn't and possibly couldn't hurt a fly, gestures at the behemoth on the ground, "managed to slash me a little before I dropped him."

"You dropped him?" I feel rather foolish with my response but I am honestly surprised.

"Yes," Dr. Watson replies and there is a world of revelations in that one word answer. Suddenly, I am relieved we are on the same side.

"How bad are you injured?" I ask brusquely, not liking the feeling that I am a little out of my league in dealing with these two men._ I am the official here_, I tell myself. Still, I can't help but wish that these two were fellow Yarders. Although, Holmes would most likely prove even worse than _Gregson_ to work with on a daily basis.

"I'm," he gasps a little. "Fine. Holmes has a concussion and a small cut on his head and quite possibly some bruised or broken ribs from the beating he received earlier."

I look over Holmes, whose forehead is one giant bruise, and then at the Doctor, who is pale himself and has evidentially been both stabbed and shot, and shake my head ruefully. "You two don't do things by halves, I'll say that much."

He smiles shakily at me and I bend next to him, looking at that side of his. Awfully long cut, that. I pull a couple handkerchiefs out of my pocket and he takes them gratefully. In a few seconds, the men with the stretcher are in the warehouse and by our sides.

"Move him carefully, his head is injured," Dr. Watson says softly as they pick Mr. Holmes up. Ever the physician, that man. He must have been a blasted good doc to have at hand in the war.

"I'll get them to bring one for you, Doctor," I say, rising, but he shakes his head.

"If you'd be so kind as to give me a hand, I think I can manage to walk."

I'm not so sure of that, but I can tell it is a matter of pride—with himself rather than with us, I think—so I help him to his feet and put my arm round him, letting him lean on me.

"Thank you," he puffs, limping along heavily.

"Certainly," I reply, more than a little worried. I'm supporting more and more of his weight as we walk toward the ambulance wagon and by the time we get there he is as pale as a sheet.

Mr. Holmes is already laying down, stretched out inside, and Greene, the injured constable, is sitting toward the front. With my help, Dr. Watson manages to get in the back of the wagon and promptly collapses. I hesitate, torn between seeing these two crazy colleagues of mine through and between my duties to the force. I look around—all of the gang has been rounded up and nearly all are loaded in the paddy wagons.

"Cooper, can you handle things from here?" I ask.

He looks at the ambulance and back at me. "Yessir."

"Alright. Let them know I'll turn my report in as soon as possible. I'm going to the hospital with Greene," I say, mentioning the wounded constable. When Cooper raises his brows, I flush. "See the prisoners are taken care of."

"Right sir."

And I get in the back of the ambulance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **And here we go again. I wasn't planning on having more than one chapter in Lestrade's POV, but he let me know in no uncertain terms that he was taking over the reins. lol.

It's interesting, since this fic is primarily about H+W's beginning friendship and all, that somehow it has also evolved to include Lestrade's beginning relationships/friendships with the two. Interesting.

So here he is again, I hope I've managed continuity in his voice and that you guys like it. There is mild profanity in here. And one POed Holmes. Please let me know if you like Lestrade, as I said before I've never written him before. Which is why I wasn't going to have his POV in here at all, let alone more than once. But he pulled his gun out and I changed my mind...

Enjoy and thanks for r+ring! I own no one in here but Greene. Oh and the doctors/nurses.

* * *

_Unexpected Complications_

**Lestrade**

I am not certain how I manage to get myself into these messes. Here I am sitting in a chair next to Greene's bed and watching the doctor sew him up and having absolutely no idea what bade me to come here in the first place. I was going to check in on Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, but Greene had heard me saying that I was going to the hospital for him and so I couldn't very well leave the boy. Oh, why did I come? I have reports to file, prisoners to attend to, people to question…

"All done. He's lost a deal of blood so we'd like to keep him here for a few hours, if that's alright with you, Inspector?"

"What?" I hadn't realized the doctor was talking to me. "Oh, yes, certainly," I said awkwardly. "Keep him here."

The doctor nodded. "Relax and try and take a nap, Mr. Greene."

The physician left us. Well, good. At least I wasn't going to have to notify his next of kin, which was probably his _mother_ as wet behind the ears as this boy is. Not that he is in actuality much younger than I am; he just has this innocent, boyish quality about him that makes him one of the most teased and all around well-liked constables.

Greene lays back against the pillows, slightly pale, with the fresh stitches in his arm looking ghastly, but he is smiling shyly and proudly. He's a relatively new Yarder, this lad, and he's probably proud he's got his first blood.

"Feeling better, Greene?" I ask.

"Yessir, I am. We got 'em an' good, didn't we?"

I return his enthused smile. "We did. And you did a good job today, Greene. Showed a lot of nerve."

"Thank yer sir."

That exchange finished we sit in silence. I shift, turned my hat around in my hands.

"Sir?" The young man's voice is hesitant and I look up.

"Yes?"

"Yer can go an' loo' in on yer frien's now, sir."

I stare at the lad. "What?"

"Yer can go an' check on yer frien's."

"My friends?" I must really drop the habit of repeating anything I do not comprehend in the form of a question; I sound like an idiot.

The boy looks at my face and swallows. "Yessir, Mr. 'Olmes and Dr. Wa'son…"

Those two? My friends? Cohorts more like, although the Doctor is likeable and closer to being a friend of mine than the 'unofficial consulting detective' is.

"I'm 'right on me own, if'n yer wan' ter go," Greene continued earnestly. "I Migh' ev'n take a nap."

For a long second I don't say anything, but I can't read anything other than honesty in his freckled face. "…If you're sure…"

He nods.

"Well, alright then. I ought to see if those two are in any shape for questioning, anyway."

I leave the room. Now, whom do I ask about their whereabouts?

"Unhand me this instant!"

I turn toward the noise with chagrin—I'd know that bellow anywhere, that's Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. Seems I will only have to follow the sound of screaming to discover his whereabouts. I grin, thinking, _As usual._

"I tell you that I am fine and that I am leaving upon this instant!" Mr. Holmes continues.

I follow the sound of his voice into a small private room—one of few in this little hospital—that holds two empty beds, two nurses, and one consulting detective on the floor.

"What exactly is going on?" I cannot help but ask.

The harried nurses turn to me and one of them says, "He's bloody mad!"

"Ah, Inspector Lestrade," Holmes' voice is quite calm and perfectly composed, as though he isn't in a heap on the floor wrestling with two women. "How kind of you to visit."

"…Hello, Mr. Holmes," I finally murmur, taking in the room, noting that his head is neatly bandaged, that his shirt has been removed, and that his ribs are also wrapped. "I fear I am…" I hesitate. "Am interrupting something…?"

"Not at all. These two _ladies_," he says with a frown, "were trying to prevent me from getting up."

"Well, Mr. Holmes," I say moving over to him and looking pointedly at the nurses. They back away and I give Holmes a hand up and he hurriedly sits, unsteadily, on the edge of the bed. "You do look a might…peakish."

"I am perfectly fine," he replies, waving a hand. The nurses sigh as one, and head for the door.

"You are not to leave, sir," one of them says as she leaves. "And if you try it again, I'll get an orderly."

"Well," I say carefully. "Perhaps you ought to rest here for awhile."

"Rest?" His eyes narrow as he speaks furiously. "Rest? I cannot rest, I do not know what has happened—my facts are incomplete! Weeks of my work—our work, Lestrade—have been worth nothing now that my informant is gone and all his evidence with him! And worst of all," he rallies, practically quivering with anger. "Worst of all, they will not tell me what has happened to Watson!"

"I can fill you in on the details about what's happened," he raises an eyebrow and I add hurriedly, "At least the ones I know. And I'm pretty certain the constables are working on getting one of the other thieves to confess right at this moment and that there is plenty of evidence of illegal activity in those warehouses. As for Dr. Watson," I hesitate.

Why in the blue blazes should I be helping this uncontrollable, exasperating man? Because he's—unofficially—a detective like I am? Or, because, God forbid, he really _is_ a friend? Well, whatever reason, I _am _going to help him, come hell or high water.

I continue. "I'll go and see what I can find out about him, providing you stay in your bed in the meantime."

He studies me for a long time and I resist the urge to squirm as those keen, cold eyes bore into me. Finally, he acquiesces and gets back in bed, which is certain proof that he really does feel poorly. "Alright, Lestrade, I suppose I shall have to leave it up to you."

He sounds so disheartened by this prospect that I scowl as I move to the door. "I'll be back with word about the Doctor," I say shortly.

Honestly. The idea that he could be a friend!


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Another update. I'm trying to do as many updates as possible before I leave.

Anyway, here we have Lestrade again, probably for the last time in this fic. Holmes is up next, I believe.

See if you can spot the round about quote from STUD. :) (I say round about because it's not exact.)

I own no one but the OC's. And the wind. (Ok, not really the wind either.)

Enjoy the chapter and don't kill me for the ending. (hides) Beware the mild swear words. And please review. I'd like to know what you all think--this is, after all, technically my second fanfic not counting the first chapter of "The Suspicious Wife." And besides, writing young H+W is new to me, as is writing Lestrade, period. Anyway, thanks for reading! :)

* * *

_Unexpected Complications_

**Lestrade**

I stride determinedly down the halls looking for the porter in the receiving room where all the patients are admitted. Assuredly the _porter_ will know about Dr. Watson or at least who I should ask about him.

As I enter the small receiving room, however, I find it empty. Where the devil is the man? Isn't he supposed to remain at his post in case a patient arrives? I suppose the nurses could have called the porter _and_ the orderlies to help them fight an irate Holmes—the thought briefly makes me smile—but certainly there ought to be someone around I can ask… There!

I spot a physician moving out of what appears to be a surgical ward.

"Pardon me, sir," I say, moving over to him. "I hate to disturb you, but I am trying to find out about the condition of—"

"We do not do things in that manner in this hospital." The man, who already is a great deal taller than I am—lots of blokes are—stands up even taller. "First of all, I am a _surgeon_ and not a porter, and besides, this is not a time in which we admit visitors. Nor am I likely to help you in any case."

I reign in my temper and continue, closing my hands into fists. "Really, sir? This is a small hospital and I do not see any impediment as to why you would not know the information I seek."

"I most probably do. However, it is against the rules for you to be here at all and certainly you shall not get any answers from me whether I should be able to tell them to you or not."

I attempt to stop grinding my teeth. "Then do you know where the porter, or any other person I can refer to, is?"

"I should advise you to refer to the door."

For a moment I just look at the man. I can physically feel what Gregson derisively calls my 'righteous fury' shooting up my spine.

"Now see here!" I begin. "If I am not given the information I need promptly, I am going to arrest you for obstructing justice and interfering in the affairs of Scotland Yard." My voice is just one decibel down from shouting and a pretty young woman pokes her head out of a room down the hall.

The man stares at me like I've suddenly grown a pair of horns. "You…you're from Scotland Yard?"

I cannot help myself, I automatically stand a bit taller and throw back my head a ways. "I happen to be Inspector Lestrade of the Yard. Now. I will ask you once more, sir, will you help me? Or shall I ready my derbies?"

"What…what is it you need," he hesitates. "Sir?"

Sad, really. I endeavor to be polite, but that hardly ever works and I am left with the option of becoming a human bull dog, as usual. Certainly, in most cases the old hound is the best, for better or worse, when all is said and done.

"A Dr. John Watson was brought in by ambulance near a half hour ago. I need to know his condition and his location, and I would like to be able to see him if at all possible." I clear my throat.

The surgeon swallows and his large Adam's apple bobs nervously up and down. Now I've got him.

"He is a _crucial_ witness in a rather large scale case and a great friend of all of Scotland Yard," I add, maintaining my official tone of voice and attempting to persuade him of the urgency of the matter.

Apparently all my bluster and official sounding pomp has had the necessary effect because he nods and stands almost at attention. "Dr. John Watson. Alright, Inspector, I shall certainly ask around and attend to the matter immediately."

"See that you do," I reply. "I shall wait right here."

The man practically runs down the hall away from me. The angry Yarder routine always works, but it's a shame it has to. Although really, not much of the anger I felt was an act…

Time for me to step back, take a breath, and untangle myself from the case. I do so hate when my emotions get the better of me when I'm working. It is, perhaps, the only commonality Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I share.

"Nice work, that," a quiet voice says from the door.

I turn and look at the pretty young lady from down the hall. She has blue eyes and freckles and a most appealing sideways smile. "Pardon, miss?"

"Getting Clive Hutchinson, _Esquire_," she exaggerates the word with care. "To do something you asked him to. He's a fearful tyrant, that man." She blushes as if realizing suddenly that she is chatting with a stranger. "Pray excuse my forwardness—I know we haven't been properly introduced. I was merely gratified to see a rude man like that put in his place."

"There is nothing to excuse. As for me, I am Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard."

She tilts her head prettily at your introduction. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. My name is Miss Constance Howell, I am a nurse here."

"A pleasure to meet you," I reply automatically. A _nurse_, eh? "Miss Howell, I was wondering if perhaps you could help me."

"Sir?"

"I need to discover the condition of a patient, a Dr. John Watson."

"Oh," she takes in a little breath. "Is he a polite young man with a mustache and a side injury?"

"Yes, miss, that sounds like him."

"I am afraid I do not where he is located at the moment, but I do know he was getting quite a few stitches in his side, sir."

I breathe out a sigh of relief—I had not even realized I was holding my breath until just now. "So he will be fine?"

She frowns. "The injury was deep, but not enough so that any of his internal organs were affected…"

"But?" I press gently. Oh _please_ do not make it so that I have to tell Mr. Holmes that Dr. Watson has died. Surely not, not a nice chap like him—although that is a rather ridiculous thought from a detective, considering that I know for a fact that many of the people who die before their time do not deserve such a fate.

"He lost a lot of blood, sir. I'm sure he'll have to stay here a while because he is awfully weak, and also to prevent infection."

Again I exhale. "Thank you, Miss Howell."

"My pleasure." She nods and goes about her duties after a polite farewell and I wait for the surgeon anxiously, only just able to stop myself from pacing. One of the _many_ virtues I do _not_ possess is patience. Not that I can't wait--I can, if I have to. I can wait and wait; in fact, I recall being told I gnaw and gnaw at things like someone starving gnaws on a bone to suck out the marrow. Not exactly the most flattering analogy. At any rate, I can wait. I just get rather testy and annoyed while doing so.

Finally he arrives. "Sir! Sir!"

I do not like the anxious way he is walking toward me nor the harried look in his eyes. Why, pray tell, does it seem that I am rather frequently the one who receives bad news?

"Yes, Mr. Hutchinson?"

He doesn't act the least bit surprised that I now know his name. He probably thinks I've already got him under investigation.

"Inspector Lestrade! I cannot find him, sir."

I frown. "You mean you haven't been able to locate the ward or the room he is in?"

"No sir, I know the room, it's just that he is not there! None of the nurses know where he is, either. He seems to have disappeared."

"Ah." Somehow this seems to fit in with the rest of my day. I _knew_ the seizure of the warehouses was too easy, I _knew_ I'd gotten lucky in having only one injured man and in finding both my colleagues alive, and I _knew_ things couldn't possibly continue to go my way. "Is that all you are able to tell me, sir?"

"Yes. I-I shall do all I can to make certain he is found."

I nod. The man is worried only about the wrath of the Yard, but I do not reassure him—perhaps he will find Dr. Watson sooner now he has a good motive to do so.

I leave the surgeon, walking aimlessly down the hall. The only honorable, honest thing for me to do, before looking for the good Doctor on my own, is to tell Mr. Holmes what I have learned. _Bloody hell._


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: **Aha! here we go with the conclusion to my story. At least, I think it's the ocnclusion, let me know if you want an epilogue. ;)

Again Lestrade surprsied me--this chapter starts off in his viewpoint and then we finish in Holmes'. It was rather fun to write about the boys' early relationship and I might just do it again some time! Thanks PGF, for the challenge, because I got a decent plot bunny out of it!

So be honest, guys, how did it go? You like this? Anyway, thanks for reading and as always thanks for reviewing! I had a blast writing this and I hope you had an okay time reading it, too.

I only own the OC's. I've merely borrowed the boys for a while. ;)

* * *

**Lestrade**

I've never been one to rehearse what I am going to say before I say it. O' course, everyone does it sometimes and it seems like now is one of those times for me. What the devil _am_ I going to say?

Shall I be direct? _Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, but Dr. Watson seems to have disappeared?_ Or perhaps,_ No one in this ruddy hospital seems to know where the good doctor is? _Or _This'll appeal to your peculiar interests, Mr. Holmes—a patient disappearing out of a hospital! _Maybe even,_ You might want to be looking for another man to share your rooms with?_ Blast.

Well, there's nothing for it. I said I'd be back with word about the Doctor and by Jove I will be. Although I'm walking in the direction of Mr. Holmes' room, I hesitate. Perhaps I ought to look for the doctor on my own, first? And _then_ go and speak to him?

A shout from down the hall decides the matter for me. "I need assistance here! Nurse! I need a nurse!"

The yell is again coming from Mr. Sherlock Holmes' room. Would it be too much to ask for me to meet the man in regular circumstances, for once?

I take off down the hall at a run. He must be awfully bad off in order for _him_ to call out for help. I tear into his room and instantly pause.

Holmes is out of bed—apparently he has just dove across the room to catch Dr. John Watson. Holmes has caught the man in his arms and looks unsteady himself and, if I didn't know better, I'd say he looks genuinely worried. The Doctor is limp, looking paler than a living man should, and his side is bleeding again where a few of his stitches must have come out as is evidenced by the blood on the side of his hospital style dressing gown.

I suppose I stand there staring a second too long because Holmes snaps, "Stop gawking, Lestrade, and be useful! Help me get him into bed!"

Instantly I hurry over, pull down the covers—in doing so I get an eye rolling from the unofficial detective—and I help Mr. Holmes lift the Doctor onto the second hospital bed.

Holmes snatches one of his pillows and puts it beneath Dr. Watson's head in a manner gentler than I am used to seeing him act in while concerning people. He always is delicate with his work and his experiments, but generally he treats men and women like slabs of beef. I can't quite fathom it, but he even pulls the covers up over the doctor's legs. I realize I'm staring again, I know it, but I cannot help it. The man actually seems to _care _about Dr. Watson.

"If you are finished gaping like a nosy fishwife, Lestrade, I'd appreciate it if you'd fetch a nurse or a doctor," Mr. Holmes says curtly.

Wonders never cease. If it'd been me in place of the doctor, Holmes would have probably hauled me onto the bed unceremoniously and left me alone to fetch a medical type himself. I frown at him and his attitude, though I should know by now not to expect him to behave like a civil, decent person would.

As I am glaring at Holmes, Dr. Watson opens his eyes and looks at us. "Th-thank you, Holmes, Inspector Lestrade." I have to lean forward to catch the rest of what he says. "Sorry for all the trouble…"

His eyes close again in a silent wince.

"Nonsense, Watson," Holmes replies instantly.

"No trouble at all," I reply. "Stay still, Doctor, I'll be back with some help."

For Dr. Watson's sake, of course, I'm going to fetch someone—the poor fellow does look poorly. I hate to leave him alone with an irritable Mr. Holmes while he is in such a state, but I don't have much of a choice.

Besides, I have an inkling that Holmes will be rather kinder to him than he would be to me in the same situation. A good thing, too, as I don't think Dr. Watson is in any shape for Holmes' accidental, offhand cruelties. _Well_, I think as I hurry out the door, _the only upside to this is at least I don't have to tell Holmes that the doctor's missing._

* * *

**Holmes**

Lestrade finally goes out the door for some help and I left out an inadvertent sigh of relief. _Surely_ the man can manage to find a nurse on his own, though he certainly didn't find Watson when he said he would. Not that I'm surprised.

"Holmes." Watson's voice is weak and I immediately concentrate on him, frowning slightly. Friendship might not be such a good thing after all, if it leads one to have such peculiar emotions. I can't quite remember the last time I felt concern for someone like this...

Mycroft can take care of himself, after all, and is rarely in actual physical danger. _Besides_, the voice of a younger sibling that lurks in my head silently adds, _he'd merely have to sit down on an attacker to stop them_. As for Lestrade, the only other person I have regular contact with, though I may feel concern for the safety of London's public when he's on the job, he is a tough bloke. No, I haven't felt like this for a long time. It is not a pleasant experience, and is doubly worse because I know Watson is in this condition because he came to help _me_.

"You," he breaks off to wince. "Had best lay down or at the least _sit_ down." He takes in a ragged breath and opens his eyes again, looking at me with concern. "You aren't in any condition to be up and around."

The man has again momentarily surprised me into silence—he seems to be becoming rather good at that and I am most definitely not easily shocked. Watson seems to continually be more concerned for me than for himself. "You should heed your own advice, Doctor. What, precisely, were you doing tramping about the hospital, anyway?"

He smiles at me. "That should be easy to deduce…I was looking for you."

"Whatever for?"

Watson shrugs, appearing slightly uncomfortable and looking at me as if I should know the answer. "I wanted to be certain you were all right. The nurses could not answer me and the doctor would not, so I determined I would see for myself." He smiles again and shifts, suppressing a pained grimace. "Not one of my brighter ideas, I admit…"

To my surprise I find myself returning his smile. "I should have known a man of action like my Watson would make a perfectly dreadful invalid."

Did I just really call him 'my Watson?' Strange.

"You aren't a model patient, yourself," he replies, struggling to sit up. "Now lay down before I have to force you to."

His efforts to sit are obviously painful and I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I'll lie down if you will."

He nods and so I retreat to my bed, pushing it over slightly so that I can keep a better eye on him. His foolish romp around the hospital has cost him dearly, as has his decision to follow me after he learned I was headed into a trap. As I study his breathing, I ponder his response to my question about his coming to aide me. _There was little else I could do, with a friend in danger. _And just now, when pressed to say why he had left his own room, he had said, _I wanted to be certain you were all right_.

There are, I am certain, heavy downfalls to this friendship idea—emotions, the idea of putting said friend in danger, sacrifices… But I think of his earnest responses to my queries, his concern when I awoke in the warehouse, his hurt earlier in the day when I insisted upon going alone, and his pleased surprise when I gave my rather ineffective and awkward thank you for his rescue and I look over at his pale, honest face, and I know that there are benefits to friendship as well.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **KCS, my dear, this one is dedicated to you and was written for you! (glomp)

Sorry this is a bit late, the internet where I am is unreliable. Anyway, and now we have the very late last chapter of this story! I thought it's be nice to do a final one, a sort of sum up.

Inspired by recent events in my own life, actually. lol. Sorry if it feels a little off, I'm a bit off myself, at the moment.

Comments appreciated. :D

* * *

**Lestrade**

I come into the room with the first nurse I could find trailing behind me, and when I look up, my mouth drops open.

The two hospital beds are close together and there is a bedpan in the middle of the floor between them. Poking out of the hole of the bedpan are what appear to be playing cards. Against the wall, an empty syringe in her hand and a reluctant smile on her face, is one of the nurses that struggled with Mr. Holmes earlier—the one that said he was 'bloody mad,' in fact. In the second bed, Dr. Watson is sitting up against a stack of pillows, holding a single playing card in his hand. His pale face has a bit of a flush to it and his eyes are narrowed in concentration. Mr. Holmes is, strangely, settled into his own bed and watching the doctor's every movement critically, looking every bit the bird of prey his nose makes him out to be.

"This is the last time, mind, doctor," the nurse says fondly.

"Yes, Watson, really, you shouldn't strain yourself."

"You're just worried I shall call your bluff, Holmes," Watson replies. If I said a thing like that I'm sure Holmes would metaphorically filet me alive with his sharp tongue, but he looks at the doctor with—is that a genuine _smile_ on his face?

Holmes—Sherlock Holmes, ever the unofficial consulting detective and often an arrogant prat—is actually openly smiling, despite the fact that he is attempting to look at the doctor with disapproval. I didn't think I was capable of being surprised so many times in one night—I'm not a blushing innocent, me—but I have a feeling the sensation of disbelief will not be an uncommon one whenever I'm round these two.

The last remaining card sails across the room and lands straight in the small opening of the bedpan. The nurse against the wall cheers and Dr. Watson beams, finally sliding back against his pillows.

"I thought I could do it," the doctor says, his voice tired, his face triumphant, but his words as modest as ever.

"Hmm," Holmes replied. "I see your aim is as unfailing as ever. I only wish your common sense was as steady—you need to rest. This instant."

The detective's words are a mite harsh, but he's looking at the second man with what I can only identify as fondness. I'd expect a look like that from Gregson before I'd expect it out of Sherlock Holmes!

"Never would 'ave thought a man could hit a pan dead even with a whole deck of cards after I dosed 'em with morphine," the nurse against the wall says admiringly.

Dr. Watson looks up at me and the nurse I brought from his bed of pillows. "Hello, Lestrade, miss. Mrs. Durham here already fixed my side. I was just proving something—"

"And it is proved. I assume you will fulfill your promise to rest—" Mr. Holmes stops as he sees Dr. Watson has already drifted to sleep.

"I took care of 'im, Mr. Holmes," the nurse whispers. "A good 'n heavy dose. Now you just behave like you said you would."

The nurses leave the room together.

I look at Holmes. He looks back at me with those steely eyes. After I hold his gaze a moment, as unnerving as it is, he cracks a small smile.

"I merely asked her to give him a dose that would ensure he sleeps for a good amount of time."

"And if she did so, you'd behave yourself?" I can't help but ask.

"Precisely, Lestrade," Holmes replies. "You are making leaps and bounds when it comes to making conclusions." Despite the unhealthy bruise over his forehead, I can tell the head injury hasn't damaged the way his mind works. And then he surprises me yet again by adding, in a voice that I would call concerned in any other man, "He really did need the rest."

"Right," is all I say, in a quiet voice. "Well, I'll be off, then. Back to the Yard."

He bribed the nurse to drug the doctor a little extra to make him sleep and regain his strength. An old adage comes to my mind—it's a good spot of luck that Watson is a nice chap that doesn't seem to have nay natural enemies because he certainly doesn't need them with friends like Holmes!

"Lestrade," Holmes says, his voice low and his expression one something akin to distaste.

The man is _hesitating_! I can't help it—I swallow, hard. I'm a Yarder through and through but some things unnerve even me. A hesitating Holmes is never a good thing.

"Yes?" I reply.

"I would like to…" A pause. "Offer you my sincere thanks."

I suck in an involuntary breath and nearly choke on it. Well, _that_ was unexpected! It is several seconds before I can reply. "Uh, not necessary, Mr. Holmes, just doing my job—"

"Nonsense. You responded to a summons from Watson and in a rare moment of foresight," I decide to ignore that part as he continues, "you managed to arrive at the precise moment your assistance was required. Had I been on my own, things might have turned out differently," Holmes says this in a tone that clearly says he would not have needed my help, "but as it was, I am genuinely grateful you came." He glances at the doctor. "Without your help, the night might have ended quite tragically."

I seem to have fallen into a habit of staring at Holmes in shock, for that is exactly what I find myself doing once more. I shake off the feeling. "I'm just glad I could help, Mr. Holmes," I finally say. He inclines his head like some sort of king dismissing his faithful subject and then leans back, closing his eyes. Obviously, I've been dismissed, so I take my leave of him, heading out of the hospital and back to my office.

For perhaps the first time in all of the many times I've left Mr. Holmes' presence, I find that I am not feeling angry or annoyed or frustrated or ready to kill someone. In fact, I'm rather satisfied. I've solved my case, rescued two people, arrested dozens of criminals, shown up Gregson's latest coup, and, perhaps the most unexpected thing of all, I've been thanked by Sherlock Holmes. Not much more a Yarder could ask for, really.


End file.
